Mok/Angel perhaps, this started as a secret santa to rinkusu001 on deviantart. 'In this dream, he had won, was it so very different from life' You would expect that the happy ending cuts all ties from the villain and the negativity they encompass; sadly, in a world without them to begin with, the laws of the universe don't consent to such conformities - quite literally.

The damp chill was getting through her bones; her slender form shivering in her thin red jacket she had for the birthday that entitled her to be there; standing in a mass of screams and cheers for the God and demon of music; the seductive, awe inspiring and generally ill-tempered Mok Swagger, musician extraordinaire.

She listened closely to him; hanging on to any word she could make out; noting only passion he put into his performance, with an arrogant smile, which , when he turned around to any empty chair turned into a glare that ensured someone's gravestone was to be written.

When they hailed him as a damned God it was his right to be worshipped; to be adored; and yet his critics were growing ever more prominent; as were the seats that were lonely.

Whilst he sang he mocked the very words he sang, nearly spitting them out of his mouth because of the toxic taste; romantic drivel his execs thought he'd get more attention with; a simple, infatuated song which may as well have consisted of ''oooh love'' and nothing more.

When he ruled his portion, at least of the Earth; god damn them they would be the very first to pay; and his mind was already inventing gleefully sadistic outcomes for them.

She did find his songs were a little less – unique, but still the screams continued; a mass of frenzied fans glorifying their idol; and she was all too happy to join in; wondering as ever just what went on Mok's mind.

He was a leader of fame, of course, but he knew how to dance with infamy as well, if not better; and many dubbed him the music industries curse after he told snippets about his adoration of incantations and the like; the press churning out with witty repertoires how he was killing originality in the business far better than any plague.

She was known for being the Mok fan in her area; all others finding it a brilliant source of snark that she listened to him off all people, and was fascinated by him; on the select interviews he gave, his roles in obscure films that were thus allowed to ooze his nature, and were he public enough for a biography of any sort, he would capture her attention with his words as well.

Omar; despite being a fellow musician was, to say the very least less than impressed; they were the big band; the only band; the world's only band that played in empty little clubs in which only spiders and drunken mutants hung out; both as bad as the other to some.

Dizzy tried calmly insisting that they needed inspiration; people to make their music even better; but Omar wanted the anger unleashed now and raw; and with not one bit of help from anyone who he did not personally choose.

Angel cursed herself over what she thought of him; foul mouthed, loud and with all the emotionally intelligence of a warthog; a real catch, she rolled her eyes to herself, sure that whatever it was, it was not love on either of their behalf's.

When she found herself preforming clichés word for word, scribbling Omar's name halfway through whatever; she reminded herself everything took time; and that even Mok had not yet found a proper lover; so her first was bound not to be her last.

She always gave her all; even when at those few clubs bars and other shacks where not even spiders dared roam; even when Omar had decided it didn't matter and got drunk instead; after all, a dream might come true.

She might be friends with him – to even know him for a moment of his life would be a life fulfilled; even if her lack of merchandise didn't suggest as much.

Like Omar wanted, they'd get out of their obscurity and have all the fame they desired; and she all the crippling thoughts of obscurity far from her mind; he'd find a whole batch of other women, she'd just record the songs she needed too, and she'd be happy...

After all; she noted, Mok seemed, if not to overtly enjoy himself be comfortable; or rather, in his case ecstatic about his own skin.

After a piece that the musician [or voodoo black musician priest, in his own indulgent words] would gladly have sent to hell flailing and screaming; there came a song that seemed to reek of vengeance and death.

His eyes flickered with madness as he sang; embraced by his words of lust rising from the ashes to kill with such flare and passion.

The song was merely a philosophy of hellish lust – he, however was lust, and the flames in his eyes turned him into a murderer of nightmare and dream; who would kill only after a caress.

Even heaven needs a little hell, a secret place in which the fury dwells; come on angel make your Satan's night, hellfire looks a little like delight.

The cold once again shook through her bones; he had, inadvertently of course, said her name; in a way which made the little theories about him seem anything and everything but lies; and in a way in which his passion burnt - a little like delight indeed.

She bit her lip; knowing damn well those thoughts, amongst other things meant her idol was the worst news since the local shakester was reported to have mutants working there.

Omar was going to flip if he knew….

Hey, it wasn't as if she could ever see Mok; and besides, Omar had his own charm, otherwise she wouldn't whisper his name quietly in times of joy; or scribble it wherever she could without notice.

How many relationships around her were love?

No, they didn't need that, even if she wanted it off someone else, in time.

Still, damn was she fascinated; and, as it was a harmless enough dream in the unlikelihood it would come to fruition she would let herself be fascinated by his image; his veneer, if not his truth.

She could see the fire in his, embracing his arrogance and loathing and all the other shrapnel of emotions in his web of deceit – she wanted to get burnt; after all, how else could he ever be called a magic man?

She heard a buzzing from the small chip in her hand, annoyed that it was interrupting a Mok concert of all things, before attaching it too her ear.

''Hey; how's Ohmtown's favourite cat killer doing?'' Omar asked; the smug smile that was his trademark evident even when she only had his voice.

''Omar,' she sighed, ''Mok's an artist, not a murderer; besides; for me anyway, this is the best concert ever.''

…..

God she was stupid.

No, far worse than plain old stupid – she was corrupted, turned almost utterly stupid and, above all annoyed with the world.

She saw him torture, maim, and laugh at the pain that was his, and still, that old dream, tainted by his new form had for a moment resurfaced in a moment that was meant to be purely sacrificial.

Unfortunately, the key words in it were meant to.

If that was not enough, which it was; she had to see his face damn near every day- plastered on TV shows; the merch which people now flocked to buy, greatest hits compilations and everything in between.

The face that was such a tragic sight for the calibre of fan she once was had done no evil; and was a genius, purely free from flaws, instead full of quirks that entertained the world in harmless ways.

No longer was he a failing rock star, he was now ageless; as he had been ''cruelly taken from the Gods; up there with the new pantheon of music'', to quote one magazine; he was someone who would never have tried to kill, and never would have ruined her.

Instead he was a victim of special effects; which had tragically killed five others with names and families and oh, the god who was Mok. [Option either of sad face or solemn silence]

Every gushing ass kissing word uttered about him made her want to vomit; even lists of his greatest songs seemed hostile to her; laughing as manically as he once had.

Still, the thing that annoyed her the most was the love song being included; aptly named ''love is [crush crush]''.

Omar had been, she admitted, far nicer than before; or at least more tolerable; mellowed out after having saved her, and, as any fairy tale would suggest the day, ready for their happily ever after.

Problem was; they couldn't live a damn fairy tale; not because she wasn't perfect, and he could be irritating; but because she didn't want one; and she would kill whoever came up with happily ever after.

They were; as far as media was concerned, a couple; joining together for the finale of Mok's final concert; not going to his funeral as they wanted ''more subdued morning, having such a strong personal connection to Mok as they did.''

Omar, of course threw all tact out of the window, and continuously rambled about how Mok was a physcopath and not a fucking rock god, leaving her to pick up the pieces and say he was traumatised by the event, and was booked into therapy.

This of course, resulted in load of yelling from both parties.

''You were always preaching about the truth and you just let them think Mok was some kind of saint, Angel; why the hell are you telling them that crap?''

Angel sighed and pouted, which she knew usually cooled him off, before saying, ''I'm not happy about it either Omar; but, he isn't a bad guy in their eyes and, well, let them have a hero for once…''

''Oh, so you can stand the sight of his smug face plastered on every damn thing?''

It wasn't on everything; well, he had yet to cover the toiletries market…

''It will only last a month tops, Omar, and he was a great musician even if he was an evil man.''

''Jesus, even you're getting nostalgic; he tried to kill us, and not just us; the whole damn world; give me one reason why it's ok he's treated like a God.''

''It's not ok,'' she paused, ''but we just have to deal with it.''

She hated apathy, not least when it was coming from herself, and even worse, inevitable; and Omar was sure not to like it either; ice the only thing between them, and instead of creativity coming to surface when they met for song writing, the same chill passed over them both.

It didn't help that the Mok worshipping fad was the opposite of over; with controversial new dramas about his ''scandalous other life'' enflaming the fans to such an extent there were protests.

Once again, she and her other close personal friend declined the many invitations to protest amongst them; saying the experience was still too bad for her, the memory of his comeback going so utterly wrong causing her great pain.

Rumours spread that she was, as her friend Cinderella had put it, ''Mok's lady friend'' at the time; turning to Omar for comfort when she saw her love in such a hopeless situation; and people were writing her letters of how she could deal with the pain; and how she was not betraying her love for finding joy in another one's love.

The worst thing, perhaps of it all was, misinformed as they were, she could not hate a single one of them; their intentions at least pure; and only picking on old wounds inadvertently.

Having seen the obsession soar, sure even so that one day it would fall from public consciousness; she had time to reflect on the man who held not only her neck in his skeletal hands, but her life and – not quite love as well.

Far too much time, in her opinion.

His eyes, at times almost devoid of pupils were laced with mockery as they looked down on her; ah yes, even on album covers the direction was always down.

His mouth, holding a bile fascination for all who beheld it likewise sneered at her attempt at an outgoing, privileged life she thought she'd treasure; full of fame and money enough to drown her sorrows in whatever ways she wanted.

As varied ways as there surely were for numbing her mind, a lot of them in the club she thought she was being oh so clever in escaping to none of them held the appeal that they did for Omar on his worse days; she was sure somehow that concealed in every bottle was Mok's smile; the epitome of mockery; and even the lightest of cocktails seemed to possess this quality.

How she longed for the obscurity she once had; they were quite well known, but hardly stalked and the fans were great, all in all; but too see her idol of sorts – perhaps even, back in her ignorant age he held something more- tarnish her dreams with but a laugh and a smile.

He had, in his mind, offered her everything; and, as traitorous as she knew it was, there was no doubt, in her ignorance; if only she had been selfish for the one moment she was likely to have been, she would have been happier, if led a shorter life.

It was like one of the quotes she held with disdain in her youth, wondering what the point of it was; ''Try to do the right thing; ok honey; I'm not going to say you have to, cause nobody's learnt a thing from perfection - that's the whole reason none of us are perfect. The thing is, just because it's the right thing; it doesn't mean it's the easy thing; or that it's going to get you liked.''

She could see the alternate images, playing out in her head; projected visions from another Earth, so very sour too her, with just a hint of the spice she loved.

She would blabber on like an obsessed fan boy about how much she adored his music; before he would grow impatient of her and, whilst pretending to woo her lead her to the bedroom; in a way most assuredly euphemistic.

She would become infatuated with him and his alien energy, thirsting to know more of a man who was to most just pictures and songs, adoring how vibrant she felt on the stage next to him.

The end however, was far more uncertain; would he postpone the work of a life time made of madness – she doubted it highly; would she tell him to stop it, blind in her charade of adoration, only to be killed by his beast, body pale and rigid before the day could be saved?

She was almost certain to vomit at that thought; somehow, even with him the dead, or at any rate dying one; killed by his infatuation of none other than himself she still felt he had the upper hand; and that it was still a far too plausible outcome.

Hell; he did hold the upper hand; after all, despite starting what for a day or so she thought would have cemented it; the duet of what for once she thought was love; he was the one who had broken their relationship [she cringed at the thought of it being anything further], was Mok not now, in tragic death the new fascination of the very people he wished flimsy yet permanent revenge upon?

She could not say one word against him without having fire through the letter box; as Toad had found out after calling him what was the truth; insane.

If he really was dead and not eternally tortured; she was sure he'd find a way from the mouth of hell into ghost form, and was laughing at her even now.

After her musings, an interview appointment [Omar was still recovering, so she would have to talk with Dizzy instead] she settled down to bed, hoping that her dreams would be void of any plot or fear; just a beautiful, cosy numbness, with a warmth she had yet to feel from anything much.

Instead, her mind was restless; it's numerous gears and cogs unwilling to rest, and thus to admit defeat, still buzzing with memories best left untouched and booting out the ones it deemed not useful; of course, the peaceful and contented ones.

She was in the same dark alleyway she and Omar made up for the last time since the incident they all knew and loathed; wandering up and down; the picture of the dream; though it would most probably be like most others forgotten, far too lifelike; far from the surreal blur other dreams took as their art style.

A figure seemed wrapped in the shadows, before emerging out to greet her.

''Angel.'' He smiled; voice as rich as ever; the very voice that was so oft to break her dreams to shards and conjure them for her in turns.

Were it life, she would have put up a fight; not letting him to think he'd won the game because of petty arguments and a few tears shed.

Were it life; she would be adamant she would win again, and would drag Omar even from the bowels of hell just to see the smile wiped off his face and to once again turn his laughter into screams of defeat.

However, it was most certainly a dream, crystallized in the absurdities that slumber brings; wherein she had no aid from her memories, feelings or thoughts, but wandered blindly in, the avatar of a world yet unclouded with opinions of itself.

In this dream, he had won.

But was it so very different from life?

Author's Notes

Hello non-existent reviewers; I wanted to do this piece after a Mok drawing frenzy, and when I regarded my new ''he can't try to kill them'' rule for pairings, which basically exists for some continuity and so it is not just Draco in leather pants I wondered how on Earth I could write believable Mok/Angel.

Simple; have her in his concert; so she was a fan but he wouldn't see or remember him.

I also wondered about how she would cope with life after Mok; as I always saw Omar as very able to turn into Mok; were it not for the duet – but at the same time, their relationship didn't really feel like love.

I made that a main theme, added some angst and hey presto; a fanfic for your viewing delight or disdain.

If this is relatively popular, either with you or I, I will make this longer; as my Disney fic has gained no interest and it will help me with my now quite old [I do apologise] labyrinth/rock and rule crossover.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.